creative writing

Test.

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It’s like there is nothing left. I’m drained.

Between the breeze and the wind, upended.

Struggling against the tide as it drifts away.

Pushing on, step by step, yet sinking and never gaining ground.

The sapped life comes and goes. A moment’s joy evaporates.

I could have been better. It could have been better.

But, it’s not. It isn’t. It could be. I know it could be.

It could also have been far worse. It Feels this way.

Nothing worth doing is easy, right? So they say.

It hurts. It really bloody hurts. Like loss. Yet there’s no loss. Just hurdles.

The sky glows under a bright moon as lanterns drift upwards.

A glimmer. Just a flicker. That hope.

That energy I see in their faces. I can do this. I must. I will.

Just as faiths test their masses, I must believe. I have too much to lose.

For this, I am lucky.

Drip, drop, drip.

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Drip, drop, drip, rain begins to fall, 
A soggy blanket over us all. 
Pitter-patter, drop, drop, plop, it’s quite absurd, 
Each raindrop whispers a moistened quiet word.

Many flowers giggle, the trees all prance and dance, 
Worms pop up, taking their chance. 
A puddle forms, a tiny sparkling sea –
A stranded haven for boats made of leaves, yippee, yippee!

Splash, splosh, splish, what a watery flowing treat, 
Raindrops tip-tap-dancing over the street. 
Forget not your brolly, dear old chap, 
Or just you might drown in your very own lap!

The rain it mocks, it rattles, it laughs, it jeers, 
Sneaking down necks, alongside strands of hair, tickling ears. 
But oh, dear rain, you do as you must, 
For without you, we’ll be dry and towels trust.

So drop, drip, drop, and have some fun, 
For when you’re gone and done, out comes the red hot sun. 
But until then, I’ll wear a joyful grin –
And a very large bucket hat to keep you from getting in!

Pour the next coffee

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Pour the next coffee

When the cup gapes open

And the mouth yearns for another filling.

Let us know how it feels

When the drops flow with warmth

And flow down the gullet

Each ounce a production of love

Stimulating rapid growth of irises

Sharpening senses and awakening the mind

How does it feel to feel the heat?

The steamed milk and familiar fragrances

The deep brown darkness of hope in a cup

The riot of swirls as milk blends to coffee

The sound of a sugar lump dropped deep into an ocean

The reflection of soul upon the surface’s light reflection

The handle proudly standing out

Grip me, it calls loudly to you

You reach out, and the joy begins.

A seed of hope.

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A Muslim hand could hold a Jewish hand.

White van man, Audi driver, and all around us should be survivors.

Creation and creatives devour words and art, feeding us new days and ways.

A Palestinian should be born under safe skies.

No guns, no knives, no fear: just lives.

The Scottish, English, or Welsh must walk together.

Whatever you believe, be able to show it. Be able to grow it.

Let the music of Bob Marley show one love.

Switch of the division. Let videos and lies fly away like fireflies.

Their dreams and plagues will no longer taunt and haunt us.

Together is always better. A community of unity.

Failure to success; pain to redress; broken to fixed. Live forever.

Some day we’ll find a brighter way.

It starts now: I give you a seed of hope.

RIGHTLY SO.

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Does that make sense?

                Does that sound right?

                                Why did you stop?

Shall we try that again?

                What else could we do?

                                What else could you do?

Does it look right?

                Does it make any sense?

                                Do we really understand?

Really?!

                I’m not so sure.

                                Maybe it isn’t right, right?



Something wasn’t quite right.

Through The Leaves

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Through the leaves, voices call out loud;

Beyond the tufted grasses wraps ivy thickly.

Through the greenery trees stand proud;

Along the jagged walls, bramble juts out prickly.

The murky Lancaster canal flows towards the sea;

A summer’s gentle breeze casts along its top.

Tits, swifts, and sparrow fly alongside bee;

Blackbirds hop along the mud and crop.

Feet slapping in the mud sinking slightly;

A fragrance of wild garlic hangs in the air.

Through the gaps and spaces, sun rays beam brightly;

Galloping dogs along the path they share.

Chattering and nattering creaks as trunks rub one another;

Regal flowers attract buzzing and zipping flight.

A ripple waves outwards from cygnets’ mother;

From Lancaster to Glasson Flight, a path wrapped in sights of delight.

The Beautiful Game.

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Where do I begin? Half and half scarves.

Following a player just for their win. Or Jack Grealish’s calves.

When had it all changed? Facebook, Twitter, X or whatever.

A platform to say anything, deranged. Modern supporters whatever the weather.

Except no. Not the rain. Not even what they call a small game.

Being begged for final tickets, which makes me insane. Fulham, Madrid, Stalybridge Celtic treat all the same.

King of the Kippax, not anymore. Game pin badges rare as rocking-horse dung.

Paper programmes up-priced to four. Your team wins, “It must be a bung.”

Image right charges, sponsors inflated. The big four, five, six, twenty.

Listen for facts, stop being deflated. No Cup replays, goodbye to plenty.

Entitlement and bitter disappointment. Park football understanding sacrifice.

The faded smells of changing room ointment. Out with the old, no room for advice.

Fields and pitches become housing estates. Bitter chants about empty seats.

Number 47 after traditional 8s. There is no room for crisis, cost of living: no eats.

The modern game for the working class. Prices go up and up and up and up.

Saturday? No. Sunday afternoon? No. Monday night? Pass. Dare you to question what is up?!

Toe the line, stand in line, pay the fine. Point deductions bring into disrepute.

Games from July to June, from Plymouth to Tyne. From five to nine, another substitute.

Automatically offside by the skin of a toe. Away, third and fourth kits in all varieties.

Again, VAR is stealing the show. Dates chugging along as corrections in diaries.

Loyalty bonus? Leaves in a year. Win, lose or draw, never gifted a process freeze.

Question their passion? Falls on deaf ear. Captive audience prices that cause you to wheeze.

Football reformation and regulation without invitation. Bills for teams, fans, agents, and players.

Time to question the rule makers’ instigation. What game will be left for the naysayers?

The beautiful game? The beautiful game. Our beautiful game? Our beautiful game.

Your beautiful game? Your beautiful game. My beautiful game? My beautiful game.

Dream/Nightmare

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What are dreams?

Broken shards of unfulfilled hope?

A dealer with an empty bag of dope?

Remnants of longed for lifestyles?

The gap along unwanted aisles?

What exactly are dreams?

A blur of shattered imagination?

A squiggle of smudged reflection?

The wings of a squashed mosquito once fit for flight?

Between day and day is there no longer night?

Where are my dreams?

So, if a dream is supposed to be positive, why does a nightmare grow from good news?

Will joyous elation ready for skews?

Is good news a mask for darkness?

Are all answers but a wild guess?

What makes dreams?

Is the craved mountain peak eternally too far to reach?

Is the hourglass open like that of a beach?

Do dawn and dusk merge as one?

Which silent bell tolls for the gone?

So, what are dreams?

Mothering Sunday

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Mother’s Day is every day.

Other parents are available.

The thing is: Mum is best.

Here’s a few more reasons:

Extremely reliable and supportive.

Really warm and loving.

Mum rocks our world.

Unfortunately Dad has smelly feet.

Mother, we love you.

Mam, Mom, Mummy, Ma, Mama…

Actually, you’re my hero.

Maybe even better than Erling Haaland.

Most Mums are brilliant.

Onomatopoeia are words you could teach us.

Mmmmmmmm.

Maybe in another generation

And one after that

Mum’s influence will shine on

As it did from my Mum’s Mum.

Happy Mothering Sunday!

STRONG(ER)

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What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Really?

Overused and overly spoken dross.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Parodied aphorism!

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Resilience and affirmation for overcoming adversity?

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

“Out of life’s school of war…“

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Twilight of the Idols, an unread book on the shelf I’ve yet to install.

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

Friedrich Nietzsche, I don’t believe you.

Take suffering as an opportunity to build strength.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Kelly Clarkson sang about standing “a little taller.”

“Aus der Kriegsschule des Lebens.—Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich starker”

It never feels that way.

Shadow.

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I feel the ache.

It’s like a shadow inside of me.

My mind questions.

It’s as if an enigma wrapped around my soul.

The nervous worry.

It’s an endless shadowing movement walking beside me.

Wobbling legs beneath me.

I feel I’m sliding uphill on ice facing downhill.

Not quite right inside.

As if I am a carpet grip with no carpet.

Every doubt exaggerated.

There’s a shadow, and I feel it’ll claim me.

Dreams

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“You are never too old to set another goal or dream another dream” – C.S. Lewis

More sleep. More mentoring. More books. More sharing. More new foods. More daring. More paths, yet to be walked. More caring. More cycle rides. More riding. More hugs. More talking. More cuddles. More sliding. More cups of tea. More creating. More cosiness. More time writing. More sunsets. More bearing. More starry skies. More drawing. More laughter. More reassuring. More dog walks. More cooking. More dreams. More learning. More trips away. More cleaning. More togetherness. More feeling. More fun. More dreaming. More devotion. More gleaming. More love. More, more, more.

More than this.

Daring do.

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Daring do.

Boldness brought about by fate;

The chutzpah of the moment, raging inflate.

Determination by the bucketload;

Jaw strutting out, standing proud and bold.



Destiny unknown, holding your nerve;

Fearlessness to catch the serve at every swerve.

With courage and dauntlessness;

Batting away fear with dabs of recklessness.



Petty safe ground abound and found;

Hopes and dreams sound around yet downed.

Compliance of darkness swept aside, under a mound;

Chasing away gloomy twilight, each and every black hound.

Life (For Living)

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It’s the pull and the push;

The sprinted finish rush.

The days are moving, the days with halts;

The bolt and jolt as nerves send volts.

The twists and turns as drama unfolds;

The seconds of voices delivering their scolds.

The wrestle of conscience whilst conscious;

The admitting of behaviours found stupendous.

The alterations of mindsets and the picking at nits;

The nagging, scriking, and getting on someone’s tits.

The feelings that flow like rivers so strong;

The knowing that we’ll get on fine, get along.

The possibility of possibilities that bubble up and fizz;

The rush, the speed of it, and that wanting to whiz;

The secondhand ticking as the stomach metabolises.

Nerves that swerve and give little of what is deserved;

Results dished out and served.

Only then will we know, which way it shall flow;

But, why oh why, does it feel so slow?

Unseen Variable

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It’s not the thing you see and know. It’s the thing they see and know.

It’s the shadow across broad daylight, revealed in radiant rays of newness

It’s the stillness of the pond on a windy day and what lies beneath.

It’s the calm skies ahead of a mighty mammoth of a storm.

It’s the drumming of Earth’s heart, rattling along lines far below the surface.

It’s the invisible rays passing from great solar storms passing through unknown to all.

It’s the grit under tyres and the silt beneath that spins the wheels above to new angles.

It’s the push of the wind against the flow of traffic slowing down the morning commute.

It’s sounds unheard yet given to the air, triggering an avalanche of unlocked actions.

It’s the soliloquy spoken softly to an absent audience ahead of silent auditions.

It’s an array of unseen variables that tangle hairs and twist cotton threads.

It’s not the thing you see and know. It’s the thing they see and know.

Lighthouses in a storm.

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I’ll never be Benjamin Zephaniah. Nor will I be Jimi Goodwin.

I’ll never write a hit poem. Or sing to the crowds of Berlin.

I’ll never be a preacher on a hit TV show. Not one play developed.

I won’t start a foundation. I won’t wrap words up well-enveloped.

I won’t mourn who I didn’t know. I will pass on my condolences.

I won’t dwell on the passing of life. I will celebrate the old and look out for the new.

What I will be is: inspired.

What I will do: write more.

What I want to do: my very best.

What I feel: inspired.

Benjamin Obadiah Iqbal Zephaniah (né Springer; 15 April 1958 – 7 December 2023)

R(age)

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Bouncing fists off walls.

Endless unappreciated failed triumphs.

Hurdles leaped, barriers removed, all in vain.

Boxes ticked, copies spoiled, followed by new processes.

Old processes retracted, money subtracted, and added, again and again and again.

No longer stopping, looking, and listening.

Hoping for a fight to be put my way.

Not sharing or caring.

Turning milk sour. With a stare.

Deleted. No longer there. Unsent messages.

No worries. No thoughts.

Switched to off.

Void.

Black.

Brother.

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What’s done is done. Don’t waste time waiting to be carried on. Get out and join the run. Find that cloud that moves away for sun.

What isn’t done isn’t a dream turned to reality. More is the pity. Witty as you are, zitty as you may be. Cheer on City, sing a ditty. Don’t feel life is shitty.

Live it. Seek it. Find it. Whatever it is. Get out more. See more. Do more. It is what it is. Time flies in a whizz.

Spend it. Spend it wisely. It can be scary and lary or live it fully and happily. Get up early, even on a Saturday.

It’s how you spend it. Like comedy? Choose wit. Like music? Find your hit. Get out of your pit. Grab your true grit.

Choose to live. This life. Now. Friends will come and go. Some live long, and some live slow. You will love some, and some may know.

What are you waiting for?

FOR QUEEN & COUNTRY

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Fought for Queen and Country

Drives a van for Asda

Battled sandstorms, landmines, and budgets readily

Pumping oil from near Basra

Why did they serve?



Away from family for months and days

Eddie Stobart rejecting tank commanders

Bodies fed on greedily by strays

Bills at the floor of the doors as bailiffs panders

Vulnerable as all.



Criminal courts ripping up old yarns

Furiously cashing in on earned medals

Looters dashing from farms to barns

PTSD, shellshock, forgotten jacketed, outcasted rebels

Witnessed the fall.



Owen, Sassoon, Armitage, Duffy, or Agard

Signed up with support lacking equipment

Stories lost, retold, or given little regard

Brutally shown reality of near-empty shipment

Exposed to much more.



War to war, always the same

For King, for Queen and service to crown

New players in the same old game

Faded uniform blends to funeral gown

The end begins.

Ex Nihilo

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Something from nothing,

Yet nothing was something;

So something was

And therefore, nothing can be.



Omnipotent presence

Surely was something;

How can nothing birth something?

Why would something grow from nothing?



Ignorance and wrath in stark contrast,

Ever the contradiction;

Biased omnibenevolence to some,

With all powerful ignorance damning many.



The chicken, the egg, the old conundrum;

Which came first?

Faith in science and science in faith,

Each with parts unravelled.

Weather the storm.

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I don’t want to talk about someone in the past tense;

The here and now will do.

Hearing, lustening, feeling across the range of sense;

Being around people presently through and through.

Seeing memorials, farewells, and gatherings of goodbye;

Flowers lay, horse and cart pulling away.

Knelt down by stone, looking up at the grey sky;

Unspoken words not ever able to say.

Wretched dreams unlived and walks unwalked;

Guidance and advice, unable to be dispensed.

Nattering and talks left silent, untalked;

Unable to place arms, no hugs against.

Worry and fear of you no longer near;

Push it aside and stand tall together.

Until the time comes, we must live out every year.

Weather the storm whatever the weather.